


Cacoethes

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-05-06
Updated: 2002-05-06
Packaged: 2018-11-20 14:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11337450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived atThe Basement, which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onThe Basement's collection profile.





	Cacoethes

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Cacoethes

## Cacoethes

#### by Sin

Title: Cacoethes  
Author: Sin  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website: http://www.darkmage.net/sin/xf_fiction.html  
Date Archived: 05/06/02  
Category: Unclassified     
Pairing: Mulder/Krycek         
Rating: NC-17  
Spoilers:   
Permission to Archive: Go for it.  
Series or Sequel/Prequel:   
Notes: This is the real version of the story of this title ;) After having to reformat my hard drive over the weekend [a pox on Nortons and bloody email worms] I am only just getting around to sending this out. It's a hell of a lot shorter than I expected it to be, but there you go *g*   
Thanks: To K for the beta and all my friends for listening to me bitch about having to reformat my hard drive - you know who you are!  
Warnings:   
Disclaimer: It wasn't me, I didn't do it. Okay, so I did but I promise I'm only borrowing them for entertainment purposes that are completely non-profit.  
Summary: 

* * *

I hate him. 

But, God, I want him. 

I want to feel his skin under my hands, the flush of bruising, of trauma, warming my palms and fingertips. There is something almost sensual about the eruption of violence. Flesh on flesh, gasping breaths, sounds of effort - the song of a pair of twisted loves in extremis. 

Every time we meet it's like that - the breaking of a wave against a tidal wall, martyrs throwing themselves on the flames, we surge against each other, against ourselves. We clash, we fight, we fuck. And just for a moment, we stop - 

Then it starts all over again. 

There's something freeing in the knowledge that for a few suspended moments I am the centre of his world, the focus of that intense concentration as his fingers bite into my wrist, his teeth pattern my shoulders in a design of petechiaed flowers. 

Harsh breaths, the rhythmic pull and strain of bodies driving for the final culmination of an attraction, a passion, a lust that will not die - even in the face of unimaginable adversity. Yet, even here, trapped in this instant of surrender, of weakness, held in thrall by our human frailties, we still battle each other, still try to hold on to the hatred, hold onto the violence. We punish each other for our lack of willpower. The pounding thrusts, clawing fingers, bruises and welts - they're simply a salve to our egos, our peace of mind -because it can't be love if all we do is hurt each other, can it? It can't be surrender if we're selfish in our pursuit of every moment of contested pleasure, is it? 

The grinding, the pounding, the shredding of each other with hands and teeth, the steady stream of profanity, of viperous anger turning to insanity as the heights beckon. Synchronicity, timing, altruism - madness. Selfish pleasure discarded for mutual gain, violence tempered but not put aside, we strive together. 

Intensity, fiery hot and blistering, burns away the barriers for a moment, shatters the blinders, the denials with which we try to deceive ourselves. Consumed by fire, controlled by our animal selves, we mate, frenzied by despair and fired by pheromones. We mesh. We meld. We find a slice of peace. We connect in a way that has nothing to do with logic, nothing to do with reality. 

We fit. 

Afterwards, all we can do is try and rebuild ourselves from the ashes. Like a phoenix we rise but not to hope, not to a future burned free of the past. Our awakening is a return to a vicious cycle, a shadow play of hostility and hatred, bloodshed and betrayal. 

We come full circle and then start from the beginning again. 

The oldest grievances first, the foundation rebuilt stronger and more secure, shored up against any illusion of warmth, of emotion. 

Until the next time. 

We clash, we fight, we fuck - 

And then we run. 

I know he's leaving. I can feel him move. We've done this so many times that I don't even have to open my eyes to know what he's doing. But looking at him he's like a ghost made flesh. He moves silently around the room, collecting his discarded pieces of clothing from wherever the hell they ended up in the frenetic rush to get them off. 

So we could get ourselves off. 

Nothing matters more than that, nothing but the sickening whirl of violence-induced passion that afflicts us when everything becomes to much, when the need to cope with our own reality results in the madness of flesh and fluids. Ideology and truth are discarded as we struggle against each other, reason and survival thrown to the wind in our haste. No quarter given, we still battle, still fight and claw in our need. It's such a downward spiral and it's one that we'll never escape, never before free of. 

At least not until we die. 

Like those rats that starve to death in bliss, we are slowly killing each other. No one could keep up the pace that we do, the bitterness and hatred that burns within us both - for each other, for the men that play us like marionettes. We're going to burn out together on the opium of that abhorrence. Once more around the merry-go-round and the culmination of that despair and revulsion the finale in this dance around each other. 

An orgasm of violence that will consume us and, maybe, by that time we'll even welcome it's darkling arms. 

I can't help wondering if that is all there is? Is that all that we have to look forward to? Are our fates so well circumscribed that nothing can break us from this cycle? 

But hope has no place here, it has nothing to nourish it's survival. All that lies between us is ashes and blood and the raging need that flares like wildfire. 

I must have made a sound because he's looking at me now. Sitting there, shirt across his knee, as he pulls on his boots. The look on his face tells me that everything I am thinking is blazoned on mine. The glimmer of saddened longing, the flicker of warmth is consumed by the encroachment of resigned despair that darkens his eyes and pulls down the corners of his mouth. 

My ghost made flesh moves to sit beside me, his had a warm cradle for my cheek, as he rests his forehead against mine. His eyes close as savours the moment, his breath a warm whisper across my lips. A hitch in his voice accompanies the opening of his eyes as he utters the words that I know are coming. They've always been coming, always been there between us, hanging like Damocles' blade, but only now being given voice. 

"You can't save me Mulder." 

The crooked smile on his face has a match in the one that graces mine. No matter how hard we try, no matter how hard we fight - 

We're from two different worlds, he and I, two different ideologies, two different mindsets. And while we've proved that opposites definitely do attract, never the twain shall met because the forces needed to bring them together only end up tearing them apart. 

"And I can't save you either." 

His hand lingers a moment before he finally moves away. With the loss of his warmth, the ice begins to form once more as the hatred held in check by the afterglow begins to surge to the fore. 

I do love him. But I also hate him. I hate what he's done and what he will do, Just as he hates and loves me. Night and day, we are yin and yang to each other - both with our own light and dark aspects - we lash at each other even as we complement. 

Wild lightning with no chance at finding ground. 

It's been like that from the beginning, from that very first spark of annoyance, of attraction. 

Two opposing forces. 

Only the Fates knows whether we'll die by each other's hand, but I'm willing to bet that the odds are even. 

We were a tragedy in the making from the first instance we met. 

Polarity. 

And as I watch him collect his jacket and leave again with barely a sound, all I can do is sit amongst the ruins of a bed, of a relationship that can never be, and curse myself for my thoughts. 

How could I let it happen? 

How could I want him? 

Anger is righteousness, faith is armour. But all the while there is a voice in the wilderness - a small dissenter that cries out from under the rough-shod boots of Truth. 

How can I be so fucking blind? 

~~ 

Cacoethes [Latin] 

  1. Bad state or habit 
  2. An obstinate, malignant disease 



Both meanings seemed kind of appropriate for this story. 

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Sin 


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